Zeitgeist Read online

  Fiona doubted Whitley’s actions could be explained away by something as simple as psychotic behavior. His actions toward her and Daddy, yes, but what had Valencia seen on the website making made her so concerned she was willing to risk discovery for a chance to speak with their father? Fiona stood. “We should finish the tour of the house, see what other changes he made.”

  Grant rose to his feet. “Upstairs or downstairs?”

  “We should look at Whitley’s suite on this floor first and then my father’s quarters downstairs. The third floor can be saved for last so we can carry up most of our luggage on the first trip. We’ll need to live up there as much as possible, in case Whitley surprises us by coming home. There’s a gutter pipe running from the dormer window down to the loggia roof. We’ll be able to get out that way if we have to run. We also need to find a remote control for the garages so we can put the car away. This way,” she said, heading in the opposite direction down the hallway. “His quarters adjoin mine.”

  Whitley’s door was positioned at the base of the staircase leading to the third floor, a half-stairway leading to a large landing opening on an opposite-facing half-stairway leading the rest of the way. Fiona tried the door, turning the knob, walking in, and stopping in confusion. “This isn’t the way I remember his room. There aren’t any possessions or photos. It doesn’t look like anyone is living here.”

  Grant passed her, walking to the closet and opening it. He peered in and closed the door before moving to the dresser and pulling out the top drawer. “That’s because no one is living here. The closet and dresser are empty. It looks ready for occupation, what with the bed made up and no signs of dust, but he must use it as a guest room.” He joined her at the door, his eyes again soft with sympathy. “Could he have moved into your father’s quarters?”

  She wanted to glare at him for patronizing her, but they were past that, so the best she could do was give him a blank stare. Of course Whitley had taken the master suite. After all, he’d killed for it. The master suite would serve as the trophy he lacked from his kill, their father’s head having been blown to smithereens in the explosion he’d contracted.

  Pivoting, Fiona left the room, heading for the staircase and moving down the stairs. After a second, she heard him follow. At the bottom, she turned to her left, entering a hallway and walking to the very end, to her father’s quarters. Again, the door opened easily. Whitley had no need to lock doors, having eliminated all intrusive eyes. She wondered whether he’d begin locking them after he brought his new wife home. Flicking on the light, Fiona stiffened when confronted with the spacious bedroom that used to be her father’s.

  What had Grant called him? That’s right: A garden-variety sicko. He may be onto something.

  Childhood photos of Whitley and a pale woman with wispy white-blond hair, his mother, Julia, dominated the room. Fiona remembered seeing small photos in silver frames in Whitley’s old room. He’d enlarged those to poster size and placed them in skinny black frames, spacing them at regular intervals all along the walls. The original photos lacked the resolution for enlargement to that size, and the poor pixilation gave them a fuzzy, dreamlike quality. Fiona stepped into the room and revolved, her eyes going from grainy photo to grainy photo until she faced the door. There Whitley was, sitting on Julia’s lap at what appeared to be a carnival or a county fair. There he was, standing by his mother’s side, clutching her hand, his expression sullen. There he was, smiling into the camera while his mother’s hand rested on his head.

  Fiona glanced at Grant. Now he looked disgusted. That was the look she’d expected when she’d confessed to having slept with five men.

  He dropped his eyes from his own examination of this tribute, meeting hers. “I think it’s safe to say we now know why your brother killed your father and tried to kill you.”

  “Maybe,” she responded, her tone contemplative. She pondered his statement and shook her head. “No, we don’t. This doesn’t explain why he wanted Valencia dead. She’d have nothing to do with a mother obsession. I do wonder about the significance of all this red and black and all the velvet and satin. When this was my father’s room, he had it decorated in natural colors: creams and browns, with forest green and rust accents. Whitley redecorated. Red carpeting and walls, black velvet drapes, red-and-black satin coverlet, even black furniture, with only an occasional white knickknack for contrast. It’s garish, almost painful to look at.”

  Grant moved into the room, standing beside the four-poster bed and tilting back his head. “Look at the ceiling.”

  Fiona followed the direction of his gaze and felt her pulse begin to thrum. Her brother had framed the front-page coverage of the plane explosion, not only framed it but secured it to the ceiling above the bed. Each night, the last thing he saw before turning off the lights was documentation of his handiwork. Bereft of speech, she tore her eyes away and concentrated on regulating her respiration, having forgotten to breathe for the last minute or so.

  Grant began a leisurely inspection of the room, walking to the nightstand and opening the top drawer. Sliding it closed, he turned back and ran his eyes around the rest of the room. “Nothing here. I thought we might find a calendar or something saying when he’d be coming back.”

  “Try the study,” she commented, pleased when her voice didn’t tremble. “It’s through that door, to your left. That’s where Daddy did his household accounts.” After he walked past and disappeared into the study, Fiona allowed herself the luxury of a pleasant memory, recalling how she used to join her father there, rapping on his door and racing in when he granted admittance. As long as she remained quiet, she and her doll could sit on the divan while he scribbled in his accounts book.

  When it occurred to her she didn’t hear Grant moving around, she wandered to the open door, seeing him crouching in front of the cavernous fireplace, poking an ink pen into the ashes. She moved to stand beside him. “Did you find something?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied without looking up. “Something was burned in here recently. You can still smell the scent of burning paper. I find this odd, given we’re now in the hottest month of the year. I’m trying to see whether anything is recognizable.”

  “I can’t imagine why Whitley would be using the fireplace.”

  “Me either.” He continued to stir the ashes, leaning farther in. When he next spoke, his voice echoed. “How many fireplaces do you have? We should check them all.”

  “Three, but the one in the kitchen is closed, blocked, whatever they do when they make it non-operable so birds don’t nest in it. There’s a functioning one in the formal sitting room and this one. That’s it. What did you find?” Her eyes went to the scrap of paper he plucked from the back of the fireplace grate.

  “I’m not certain.” Grant relaxed back on his heels and gingerly handed her a fragile triangle of tan paper no larger than a cell phone, with the rounded base scalloped and charred. “This looks like the upper left-hand corner of a document or a flyer. Can you make out the letter on the longest side, close to the burned portion?”

  Holding it flat in her palm, Fiona studied the scrap, at first not seeing any letter through the charring. Then a form began to take shape. “A 7? No. It’s part of a capital Z.” She looked from the paper to Grant. “Does that say anything to you?”

  “I was hoping it did to you. Z. Zebra, Zulu, Zen, Zion—Are you Jewish?”

  She shook her head. “My mother was a Hindu, but we didn’t practice. I suppose we could look up Z’s in an online dictionary, but I doubt it would help. We need to get on the office computer. There’ll be answers there. For now, though, I need to get out of here.” After returning the scrap of paper, Fiona wheeled and left, trying to shut her mind to the photos lining the walls when she passed them on her way through the bedroom. Whitley had been, was, sick, really, really ill. When she thought of all the times she’d run to him, confiding in him her latest peccadillo, she felt newly ashamed. How he must have felt justified in his hatred of he
r! She’d thought he’d been listening, and he had, but only for the purpose of stockpiling injuries against him and his mother.

  A thought occurred to her, startling in its intensity, and when Grant joined her in the hall, closing the door behind him, she turned to him. “She doesn’t know.”

  He looked startled and then wary. “Who doesn’t know?”

  “Whitley’s new wife. She doesn’t know about Whitley’s sickness.”

  “And how did you deduce that?”

  “She’s never seen Whitley’s bedroom.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Suppose I were to invite you to my bedroom.” He grinned, and she glared at him. “I’m not saying I would, and I assure you I never will, so you can get that smile right off your face. I’m proposing a hypothesis.” She waited until he assumed an appropriately non-committal expression. Like the ant in the song, Grant had high hopes. Unlike the ant, he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of moving that rubber-tree plant. “Suppose you walked into my bedroom and saw the walls lined with enlarged photos of me and my father. What would you do?”

  “Run like hell. You’re right. She doesn’t know.”

  Fiona’s heart went out to the pretty young woman she’d seen on the newscast about her brother’s wedding. “I feel sorry for her. She’s too young, too trusting.” For one disconcerting second, she wondered whether she was talking about Whitley’s bride or the Fiona she’d been three years ago.

  “Possibly. Maybe she’s equally sick.”

  “I suppose.” Forcing herself past the melancholy, she said, “I wonder whether my father knew.”

  Grant shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to say. You’ll probably never know, not for sure. I think he did, though. Maybe he said something to Whitley, alarming your brother so he had to kill him.”

  “No, Valencia was the catalyst. Her presence set everything in motion, forcing Whitley’s hand. Whatever Whitley was doing with Delaney.com was in danger of coming to light, thanks to Valencia’s research. We need to get online and determine what made her suspicious.” She glanced at her watch. “I can’t believe it’s already 8! The computer will have to wait until tomorrow. We still have the third floor to check, and we need to carry up the suitcases.”

  Fiona headed to the office, listening to Grant’s footsteps behind her, surprised by the comfort she took in his presence. Could she have made this home tour alone?

  Of course she could have! Having him with her was like carrying two umbrellas during a downpour. The secondary umbrella caught a few drops the primary umbrella might have let pass, but it was completely unnecessary for protection from the storm. She glanced at him over her shoulder, frowning at his leisurely pace. “Hurry.”

  Chapter 11

  Grant toted the last of the suitcases upstairs. Fiona had said these two belonged to Valencia McDermott. He wondered whether the cell phone was in one of them. If so, they should pull it out and charge it. There might be answers in it, maybe messages or a calendar or contact information. Maybe a brief biography on the woman or employment records, he thought, pausing on the landing between the half-staircases leading to the third floor. Hope springs eternal, no matter how unrealistic or crazy it might be.

  Whitley really needed to install an elevator, he thought while resuming his journey. What was that adage about elevators and lunatics? That’s right: His elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor. That explained nothing but whiled away another minute while he finished mounting the narrow staircase opening on a wide hallway separating four small bedrooms, a turret room, and a bathroom.

  They’d been surprised to see all the bedrooms were occupation-ready, with fresh linens and a noticeable lack of dust. Fiona said the third floor had been vacant, with its furnishings draped in covers, when she’d lived here. Once a month, the maid had shaken out the covers, dusted the furniture, and vacuumed the carpets, but as far as she knew, that was the only activity the rooms ever saw.

  Remembering her statement about escaping down the gutter pipe leading to the loggia roof, a scheme holding little attraction for a man who weighed a good sixty or seventy pounds more than she, Grant suspected the rooms had seen more activity than a monthly cleaning, perhaps the occasional late-night exit on her part, but he’d kept his mouth shut. She’d already accused him twice of being talkative; he wasn’t about to open himself up to more insults. Today had been packed with injuries, physical and emotional, and both body and mind were already lacerated.

  Stopping in front of the room Fiona had chosen for herself after generously suggesting he take any room he wanted so long as it was at the other end of the house, he dropped the suitcases and knocked.

  “Go away.”

  Their future together had never looked brighter. Grant opened the door and stepped in. She didn’t look at him from her seat on the bed with a remote control pointed at the old console television on the opposite side of the room. His gaze went to the window. Even though it had blinds and heavy curtains, she’d draped bath towels over the curtain rod. She wasn’t taking any chances. He turned to grab the suitcases and placed them inside the door. “That’s the last of them. Is Valencia’s cell phone in one of these? I want to charge it so we can check for messages and contacts.”

  She gave him a distracted look. “The cell phone is in the metal suitcase, and its key is—Dammit, Grant! You’re a real pain sometimes. No, make that all the time.” After pausing whatever she was watching, she jumped off the bed and hurried to the dresser, grabbing her purse and rummaging through it. “The key is on my other keyring.” She pulled out a set of keys, tossed it to him, and returned to the bed, picking up the remote and sitting crosslegged at the end. “The charger will be in the leather suitcase.”

  Hunkering down beside the metal suitcase, Grant selected a key that looked the right size and was the right size, inserting it and opening the case. He raised his eyebrows. That was a serious looking gun, maybe an automatic Uzi. After plucking out the cell phone, he picked up the passports and removed the rubber band to glance through them. Fiona was right. This was definitely ominous. People on the right side of the law had little reason for two different identities, not unless they were secret agents or spies. Or terrorists.

  He hefted the velvet bag, impressed by its weight. After thrusting the cell phone into his pocket, he tugged at the bag’s draw-cord, opening it and removing one coin. The gold gleamed beneath the overhead light, and he was able to discern every fold in Lady Liberty’s flowing gown. Fresh from the mint. Why would a woman travel with gold coins?

  Because gold is the global currency, acceptable in every country, that’s why. Another good reason to be suspicious of Valencia’s friends. An Uzi, two identities, and a pound or two of gold, while not necessarily sinister, would make most people suspicious.

  He closed the metal case and turned to the leather suitcase, zipping it open and sorting through the contents until he found the charger. He hesitated before rising, considering the clothing. It was all functional—blue jeans, cable-knit sweaters, nightwear—but had the look and feel of quality.

  He pulled out a dark green gift box with a large thistle flower depicted on its cover. That was interesting. Removing the lid, he raised his eyebrows at the contents. It was a book, a rare one, with thick, soft, tan pages. The frontispiece read “Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns” at the top. Rabbie Burns, National Poet of Scotland—Grant had read some of his poetry while in college, all of it as assigned reading. It hadn’t been to his taste.

  McDermott must have been Scottish, which explained the thistle, Scotland’s national flower. The woman depicted in the passport photos didn’t look Scottish. She looked Native American. He supposed her father could be Scottish, which would account for the last name. Maybe she was married to a Scotsman.

  At the bottom of the frontispiece were the Roman numerals “M,DCC,LXXXVI.” It had been a while since he’d studied Roman numerals, so he had to concentrate on the translation,
finally arriving at 1786. This book was quite old and, he suspected, much more valuable than the sack of gold. Closing the box, he continued his inspection but saw nothing else of interest. “This is all she had?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Fiona responded without looking his way.

  After preparing the cell phone for charging, Grant walked to the bed, tossing both sets of keys beside her. “I hung the house keys back in the office, and the car is now residing in a garage bay. Tell me you didn’t own a silver-green Audi.”

  Hitting pause on the remote, she looked at him and didn’t speak for a full minute, finally shaking her head and saying, “I don’t want to know.” She looked back at the television, hitting play.

  She’d made a wise choice. Grant hadn’t taken time to count all the “whores” and “sluts” Whitley had carved in the paint with some sharp instrument, and she wouldn’t want to know about all the smashed glass, including windows and headlamps. It was almost as though her brother was trying to kill her again and again and again. Whitley Delaney wouldn’t be happy until he’d burned down the hospital in which his little sister had been born, forever eliminating any evidence of her earthly presence. Grant wondered what had prompted that degree of hatred. “What are you watching?”

  “Family videos. My father copied them to DVD.” She addressed the television. “A life reduced to three boxes. That’s what Whitley did when he took over Daddy’s room. He threw everything into three boxes.” She jerked her chin toward the closet. “I found them in there. Awards. Photos. DVD’s. Correspondence. Important papers. I found my birth certificate. Not my death certificate, though. I think Whitley was in another rage when he packed. Anything glass is broken.”

  For the first time, he noticed a bandaid on her right index finger. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  “Help yourself, but be careful.” Her voice was distracted, her mind obviously focused on the players on the screen.